Sparkles & Sweatpants

Hi ladies.

It's been a while ... and I miss you. I'm hoping that we can get reconnected on my new blog, Sparkles & Sweatpants.

Come on over. Let's have a glass of wine and catch up.

xoxo ~
Emily

And Suddenly, Time is on My Side.

I'm sitting here in awe. Not at my ability to type this entry while holding my laptop at an arm's distance, but at the reason why I've been forced to master this ridiculously uncomfortable feat.

I have a huge, round belly.
I'm 37 weeks pregnant.
I'm having a daughter in 12 days.

I started this blog in a frustrated, drunken haze, angry at myself and my uterus for not giving me what I wanted - a baby. And I think I stepped away from this blog for so long because I was afraid I would never get to this point; that it was all a dream that would be taken away from me.

But now I'm full term. And it's all so real.

My wonky, bicornuate uterus you ask? It never gave me one ounce of trouble (except for the mental anguish that kept me up at night for 9 months, of course). No bed-rest. No pre-term labor scares. Heck, I never even got any morning sickness. It's been pretty, well, easy. (Please don't send me hate mail ... I'm not trying to go all Gisele Bundchen over here.)

One complication in a nearly perfect pregnancy: BumpBaby is breech. They say it's very common when you're only working with half a uterus or so. Her head is up at the very top of my uterus, so that when I lay down I swear it looks like she's standing up in my stomach. In reality, she's sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest and her bony butt poking me in the cervix. But it's OK.

I'm having a c-section on September 2 - as long as baby decides to stay put until then. I'm not one of those people who have always wanted to "experience" natural birth and all that, so I don't really care. I'm just ready to meet her, whatever way that has to happen.

So keep me in mind 12 days from now, and I promise I'll let you know how it goes. I'd love to write more, but right now I have to go waddle my way to the bathroom before my bladder explodes.

The ASS is not U, it's ME

So last weekend I did something I swore I would never, ever, ever do. I ASSUMED.

Some of you may remember my rant about people assuming BumpMister and I were just putting off having a baby for selfish reasons, during which I oh-so-astutely spat:

Making a wrong assumption about someone can swiftly and uncomfortably escalate into a shame spiral: You feel embarrassed when you recognize your misstep, the person you assumed to understand feels more embarrassed at your faulty belief, and in turn their embarrassment makes you feel even worse.

Well, yeah. It's true. But this time I was the one splattered at the bottom of the shame spiral. Here's what went down...

I was at College Roomie Rachel's shower, basking in the glory of my own newly exposed pregnancy. There were baby bumps everywhere. Everyone seemed to positively glow. The whole world was shades of pink and yellow. (Ok, ok, maybe I had on pregnancy-colored glasses or something.)

As I popped my fifth finger sandwich in my mouth, one of Rachel's childhood friends came and sat by my side. "I just heard your news. Congratulations!"

"Thank you, I'm so excited," I gushed ... And then, before I knew it, the following bomb escaped my mouth:

"Are you pregnant too?"

Friend O'Rachel turned purple. And that's when I knew I had made a horrible, horrible mistake.

"Me? Oh no, no, no." She held up her hand. "I'm not even married, so that wouldn't be good."

My mouth went dry. The finger sandwich dangled an inch from my lips. And I really almost started to cry. But instead, I was able to spew out this gem:

"Oh. Oh my god, I'm so sorry. It's just that... I have the same dress."

I know. Brilliant.

Friend O'Rachel, still as purple as an eggplant, tried to move on. She asked me a few more questions, during which time I think I just stared at her blankly, willing her to dissolve in a puff of smoke. And then she finally walked away.

I don't know what came over me. I still can't believe I assumed this poor girl was pregnant with no knowledge of her life or situation at all. And I can't stop thinking about how horrible I must have made her feel.

But the dress did scream Motherhood Maternity.

It's a ... Troublemaker!

Yesterday we had our first trimester screening, and we also had our first introduction to our baby's personality. And it was trouble.

Despite the two large glasses of juice and the 1 LITER of water I drank before the ultrasound (hey, they say to come with a full bladder, and I didn't want to disappoint), BumpBaby decided not to cooperate. S/he laid on her/his comfortable side for a good 30 minutes, while I did the horizontal peepee dance on the ultrasound table, until the ultrasound technician was able to shake him/her into a profile.

And then ... I fell in love for the 1,000 time this pregnancy:
Of course nothing can be all good with my little troublemaker, so although I learned that s/he has less than 1 in 18,000 of a chance for Down syndrome and less than 1 in 20,000 for Trisomy 18, I also learned that I might have TWO UTERUSES.

Yep, not one cute heart-shaped one. Two completely separate uteruses (uteri?) with two completely separate cervixes (cervi?). Say what?

Unfortunately they can't make the distinction between the bicornuate uterus and the double-trouble uterus while I'm pregnant so I won't know for sure until after this baby is causing trouble outside my body rather than inside. But it's just something to add to the growing list of WTF?! Mysteries of "Me, Pregnant."

I'm So Devolved

Sometimes I think evolution must be circular. Like, the further removed we feel from our hairy forefathers, the closer we get to becoming more like them.

There are the obvious examples (basically anything men do when trying to woo, impress or keep a woman), and then there are the more subtle examples. Examples like the following ... which puts an intelligent, (semi) confident woman like myself on the same evolutionary limb as a tree shew. Yes, a tree shrew.

I'll explain.

A little while after I found out I was pregnant (yay), but closer to the time I found out I have a disfigured uterus (boo), BumpMister and I went to NYC for the night. It was a beautiful weekend and we decided to go last minute to tourist it up - which included shopping, seeing Mama Mia! and spending about five hours perusing the Museum of Natural History.

We're dorks at heart so we love the museum. But the highlight of our trip was the "Hall of Evolution" (Ok, I don't think it was actually called that, but it sounds good.) Because in that hall is where we saw the following:


The title: REPRODUCTION HAS CHANGED.

The details:


For those of you who don't have laser vision, it says "The bicornuate uterus becomes simple." And then it shows the evolutionary progression of the uterus ... from a TREE SHREW to a HUMAN.

Because nothing in life or in pregnancy is "simple," this statement seemed, well, perfect. And instead of making me get all weepy eyed at the idea of my unsimple uterus holding my simply perfect baby, it made me and BumpMister laugh. Laugh, out loud, long and hard, standing alone in the middle of the Hall of Evolution.

Because I realized - I'm twice the woman a tree shrew will ever be. And if she can do it, I can do it.

Grovel grovel

Hi. It's me.

I'm sorry.

I know I've been a bad friend - very selfish, only thinking about myself, not sharing. But I promise I'm back to my old self ... and I want our friendship back. Is that cool?

So I'm ready to spill the beans. Want a glass of wine first? I'm fine, thanks; I'll stick with the ginger ale. But I will have that chocolate cake. With ice cream. Thanks.

OK, here's the scoop: I'M PREGNANT. Oh, I already told you? Ok, well here's what has happened since:

After my fantabulous birthday present, I went to the doctor and peed on another stick - and I guess this is the legit stick, because I really didn't believe I was pregnant until this point. But it said I was, so, YAY.

Fast-forward a few weeks. I went for my first ultrasound. BumpMister came with me and it was all goody goody gumdrops. We saw the little pulsating lima bean on the screen, I cried ... it was very Nicholas Sparks. Until the ultrasound technician said, "Oh look, you're special."

Heart - stop. Just, stop. "Excuse me?"

"You have a special uterus. It's heart shaped." She smiled.

"Well what the hell does that mean?" By this point, BumpMister was holding my shoulders down on the exam bed so I wouldn't sit straight up.

"Oh ... the doctor will tell you more about it."

But she didn't. Not really. The doctor said it was called a bicornuate uterus and it may be a septate uterus and that it was nothing, really, there's just a slight chance for miscarriage or preterm labor.

What I heard, however, sounded like this: "Haha, gotcha! You think you're gonna have a baby? Think again! We're taking it back!"

I left the office in a daze, while BumpMister kept repeating what has become a mantra: "It's fine. The doctor said it's fine. Don't worry about it." I completely ignored him, and the second I got home I did the most horrible thing I have ever done: I Googled it.

Ladies, never Google. Google is the hope killer.

Anywhoo ... I'm going to skip over a few days (weeks) of crying and agonizing and let you know where I am right now.

Today I'm officially 11 weeks 3 days pregnant. All is wonderful. Last week we went for our second appointment and heard the baby's heartbeat on that Doppler thingie. BumpMister said it sounded like PacMan eating the pellets in the arcarde game. It did. But more wonderful.

I go for my scary ultrasound on Friday (the one to test for those bad diseases). I'm petrified. Not necessarily of downs syndrome or any of those, but of my stupid malformed uterus. But if all is OK, we're going to tell the world. Which scares me even more.

I tried to get pregnant for 14 months. And now that I am, I can't help but think it's going to be taken away. I'm trying trying TRYING to be positive. And this message board has helped a lot. But every once in a while, doubt sinks in.

So I'm back, because I need to share. Because if I don't share, I'm going to explode. So thanks for forgiving my shatty friendness. I promise to be there, if you are.

My Birthday Present

December birthdays suck. Overshadowed by the holidays, December birthdays are tossed aside like unwanted presents and ignored like the extra tug it takes to button your favorite jeans.

Growing up, my December 30th birthday was the worst. Stuck like a speed-bump between Christmas and New Year's, my birthday could never be celebrated with a classroom of squealing children (we were all on Christmas break), and time after time my American Girl-themed birthday parties had to be canceled due to Nor'easters.

This year, however, someone is finally making up for all of my Christmas-wrapped birthday presents and snowed-in parties. Because somehow, somehow, during a month that wasn't supposed to count, during a month off before I started with the RE, I was just given the most unbelievable birthday present ....


Happy 29 to me. I think it's gonna be a good year.

Talismans

In second grade, it was a blue rabbit's foot. I remember it was feathery soft, with a tarnished gold chain dangling from one end. It simply meant "luck," because back then, things were that simple.

In high school, it was a silver ring with a turquoise stone set in the middle of an eagle. My mom had bought it on an Indian reservation out West when she and my father drove across the country in a Volkswagen bus. I wore it on my pinky. It meant "boundless opportunities." It radiated heat.

In college, it was a dried rose. It was left in my dorm room by BumpMister on our first Valentine's Day. We were 19. It meant "promise." I have always kept it.

Today, it has multiplied to many. It is a tiny gold elephant that traveled from India in the pocket of a friend who hoped to bring us luck. It is a wooden string of Rosary beads purchased on a sweltering day at the Vatican by parents with a grandchild in their prayers. It is an unlabeled CD that buoyed a sister-in-law as she drifted through her own hard time.

Trinkets. Objects. Things. Items. Yet so much more.

Life. Friendship. Family.

Hope.

What is your talisman?

Black Clouds

The holiday season: It's supposed to be a time of slender candy canes and heaps of granulated sugar and mountains of Godiva chocolate. Santa is coming, champagne is chilling and presents are ready for unwrapping.

But above all the bustle you hear ... a rumbling. A storm. Black clouds forming on the horizon. Lightning flickering over your work party's holiday buffet. Why?

Because between Christmas and New Year's, a pivotal precipice is being mounted. A spiny peak of pain is jutting forward and cannot be ignored.

I am turning 29 in 19 days.

When I was younger, I thought my mom was so young for having me at 27. I would at least wait until 28 - I mean, come on. Let's be sensible. Fast forward to today, when the decision is totally out of my hands. 29 seems ancient.

Maybe it's not old to you. If it's not, I apologize. But let me tell you what IS old: This process. This endless guessing and waiting and hoping. This exploring and yearning and watching as others get what you've wanted for so long. This unfair, unfair, unfairness.

Friends, you know me. I don't normally get so down. But I'm tired. And the cloud is looming. And it's NOT fair. And that's all I can say tonight.

Oh Shhhicle.

Shi•cle [shy-kuhl] noun, verb, -cled, -cling.

-noun
1. any shitty round or series of occurrences that repeats or is repeated.
2. a recurring period of time in which certain shitty events or phenomena repeat themselves in the same order and at the same intervals.

Use shicle in a sentence>

My period came on the 45th day of my shicle this month.
Last week, I shicled all the way to the fertility clinic.
They told me to come back at the end of this shicle.
I feel like I'm shicling in circles and not getting anywhere.

Origin:
Middle English: shite
Latin: cyclus
BumpMister: CD 45: "wow, what a shitty cycle. it's a shicle. haha."

Yeah. Haha.

Cold Hearted Snake

The best part about waking up to a 96.5 temperature for 28 days in a row? I get to sing "Cold Hearted Snake" to myself each morning as I brush my teeth (Hey Paula!). That, or "Cold As Ice." I alternate. You know, keep it exciting.

Because otherwise, I would be tempted to try to smash my cute little basal thermometer with my alarm clock. (Ok, I admit it. I did try this. It didn't work. It just beeped at me spitefully.) Or cry. Which I actually almost did on the spinning bike this morning.

How could my temperature be SO low? How could I have not ovulated this month when I DEFINITELY ovulated last month and FINALLY got a real period, on my own, without Provera?

I called the all-knowing Dr. Obigeewyan today to get to the bottom of the matter. "Oh. Hmm," she said wisely. "Well." Thank you, my sage. Finally: "Well, do you have really long cycles as well?"

Oh yes, as a matter of fact, I do! I must have forgotten to mention that to you the last 100 times I've spoken to you over the past 13 months.

But then Dr. Obigeewyan said the first thing I agreed with in a long time: "I think it's time for me to refer you to a specialist."

Right on, Obi. Bring it. Whaddaya say, Paula?

Who Chose THIS Adventure?

When I was 10, my favorite books were "Choose Your Own Adventure" (after Anne of Green Gables and Babysitters Club, duh). I could sit enthralled for hours helping Princess Peony navigate her way through the fiend-filled forest in order to be reunited with Prince Perfection.

At the end of each chapter, I would contemplate my next step thoughtfully, trying to make the story last as long as possible. "If Princess Peony follows the mysterious gypsy into the cave, turn to page 2. If she follows her heart and stays on the straight path, turn to page 7." Follow your heart, Princess! Follow your heart! Page 7 it was.

Sometimes, however, I would accidentally lead Princess Peony astray ... and would quickly backtrack when I turned to the next page only to see THE END printed neatly at the bottom of the paragraph. It can't just END like that!, I'd think. It didn't end with Perfection!

I recently had a nostalgic conversation about "Choose Your Own Adventure" books with Said Friend Stacie (you know, the one who got pregnant when her husband sneezed near her). After I gushed about making each book last until the pages were worn and the ink was rubbed away, Stacie laughed.

"Omigod," she said. "I'm so the opposite. I would always pick those books for book reports and then choose the shortest way to the end possible."

I was shocked. Who would want to just skip to the end? Who wouldn't want the journey to last?

Now, as I enter my 13th month of my Infertility Adventure, I've started wondering the same thing. Would the pathway to pregnancy be as life-altering and rewarding if I had simply skipped this story and gone straight to the end? Would I have been this completely ready to be a mother? Would I have recognized this much about myself?

Right now I'm still navigating my way through my own story ... but I have faith that when it's right, I will reach the end. And when I do, I'll be satisfied with how I got there. I'll be ready to begin the next chapter. It'll be Perfection.

Here We Clo Again

As I've shared, I went on birth control when I was 15 because of my horrendously horrendous cramps. When I think back to the dramatic scene I would cause once a month - rolling around on the floor, crying, throwing up - I cringe with embarrassment. Because they couldn't have been THAT bad.

Oh yes. They could.

Know why I know? Because they came back last night after a nearly 14-year hiatus.

When I last left you on Saturday, I was all goody-goody-gumdrops over my progesterone level of 24. I went to a wedding on Saturday night and didn't drink a drop (ok, maybe a drop, but not even half a glass). I began calculating my due date. I Googled baby boy names (because of course I already have my girl name picked out).

And then. The cramps.

They hit me like a punch in the gut. For one good hour last night, I screamed and cried in pain, dry-heaved and basically had a huge meltdown. At first BumpMister looked at me like my head was spinning. Then he panicked and wanted to take me to the ER.

Then he called my mom. Yes, my mom, who assured him that this was normal (well, normal for the 15-year-old version of me) and to simply wait it out.

BumpMommy was right, and after an hour I was snuggled on the couch eating pistachio ice cream and wiping mascara streams off my cheeks. But when the cramps stopped, something even more horrenously horrendous started. My period.

Which brings me to today...

...and my third round of Clomid.

...and the message from Dr. Obigeewyan that ominously said, "I'm going to give you one more prescription, and if you don't get pregnant this month, I'm referring you to a reproductive specialist."

So here we Clo again.

Torture & Tantrums

If our government could bottle the two week wait, it could be used to thwart terrorism across the globe. Because right now I feel like I'd rather have bamboo shoots stuck under my fingernails than wait one more minute to find out if I'm pregnant or not.

It's CD 29 for me, and on CD 24 I got my blood taken. After harassing Dr. Obigeewyan's curt secretary for a week, I found out yesterday afternoon that my progesterone level is at 24. "This is fantastic; I couldn't have asked for better," said Dr. Obigeewyan. "You definitely ovulated this month."

Instantly the black shell of detest that I had mentally formed around Dr. Obi's face melted away, and I wanted to hug her through the phone. Finally some good news! But now what?

"Take a pregnancy test in a week. Then call me," said Dr. Obi.

Yes, sounds good, I told myself. Wait one week. I am an adult; I am making the decision to wait; this is what I'm going to do.

So of course, I woke up this morning at 3:30 a.m. and peed-on-a-stick. And it was negative.

Now I'm doing math - and you all know how well that works out for me. I "think" I ovulated on CD 18, which means the two week wait shouldn't be over until Tuesday. But I used one of those "Test 5 days sooner than your missed period!"B.S. wands. BFN. Grrr.

What do you think, ladies? Give in to the torture or ride it out? Give up hope or keep it alive? Because right now I feel like waving the white flag of surrender.

Cramp You

You know those people who are incessantly happy and positive? Who think things happen for a reason? Who always see the glass of champagne half full when others see a massive hangover on the horizon?

Yeah, I'm not one of those people. But for the past month I've been masquerading as one. I've decided to force myself to take a positive outlook on all aspects of my life - my highly stressful job, my vanishing motivation to work out, and of course my infertility. It's basically because I've come to the conclusion that my intense levels of stress must be contributing to my anovulation.

It has been a struggle. I need to keep reminding myself to banish the gloom and doom from my brain. I find myself smiling a strained smile almost all day in an effort to trick my mind into happiness.

And it's worked ... to some degree.

But now I'm on Day 22 of my cycle and I woke up with the worst cramps. I don't know why. My shortest cycle of late has been 40+ days ... and that's before they stopped coming at all. Maybe miraculously my cycle is evening out and I'm getting my period? But that would mean I'm not pregnant - of course - which means my second cycle of Clomid was a dud.

I'm trying to stay positive and not Google something insane like "cramps + cycle day 22 + death" but it's hard. And if I try to talk about with BumpMister, he automatically starts saying "I thought you were going to try to be positive this cycle..."

I think he and I have different definitions of "positive."

I Can't See You!

Where have I been, fun friends? I will tell you. I have been playing ostrich.

Instead of acknowledging all of the scary things around me, I have been hiding my head in the sand, pretending it hasn't been happening. I have been completely ignoring the fact that I've now officially had fertility struggles for one year - and in turn, I have been ignoring all of you.

I'm sure everyone reaches the point where they feel like they can't talk or think or read about fertility and infertility for one more second or they're just going to barf all over their keyboards. And I got there two weeks ago after my college roomie told me that she, too, was pregnant. I broke down. I emailed my mother the news, and then I avoided her calls for one week because I knew she wanted to talk and see if I was OK, and I wasn't. I had to stop myself from crying at work for no reason. And I had to fight the urge to call Dr. Obigeewyan and tell her to shove her second round of Clomid 50 mg up her hippy-dippy you-know-what.

It took me about a week to get out of it, and now I really am feeling a lot more positive. I've popped my head back up out of the sand and am now charting and trying all of those things to "take charge of my fertility." And I do feel more empowered. And best of all, happy.

We'll see if this is the month. If I were a betting lass, I might not be so positive. But then again, maybe it's time for my luck to hit.

I'm SOOOOOOO Happy For YOU! Like, Really. O.M.G.

As women, we're groomed to be two things: 1) people pleasers and 2) backstabbing bitches.

We're told that if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. But we're also encouraged by our peers to save these "nothing nice to says" from our friends' faces only to hurriedly text them to other friends the moment we're out of Blackberry-click-hearing distance.

So it's no surprise that I find myself totally overcompensating with sugary niceness when girlfriend after girlfriend announces her pregnancy to me ... only to wallow in self-pity and bitchiness to you ladies and my few real-life confidants the moment I can escape her motherly glow.

Said Friend Stacy gets pregnant? I buy her some sparkling cider and sit and talk about the baby's nursery with her for hours - while in reality each sip of carbonated syrup feels like I'm swallowing daggers.

College Roomie Rachel sends me her ultrasound via email before work? I send her a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and balloons - while I secretly speed-dial BumpMister, crying in the communal work bathroom.

Why do we (ok, I) feel the need to completely go over the top to hide our true feelings? Is it nurture? Is it nature? Or is it just plain neuroticism? Who knows. All I know is that I'm am just. So. THRILLED for all of my fertile friends. Hugs! Kisses!!

Don't Drink and Devulge

This weekend, I went to a friend's wedding and got totally annihilated. Vodka sodas, champagnes, Pinot Grigios ... topped off with a couple beers at the after party until 3 a.m.

So it's understandable that when I found myself sitting at a table in the hotel lobby with my girlfriends at 2 a.m. and one of them once again asked me when BumpMister and I were going to start having kids, I burst out in tears. Like, a faucet. Smearing my perfectly applied liquid black eyeliner all over my face. It was not pretty.

While I was spilling my guts, I remember telling myself, "Jeez BumpBlogger, you are so going to regret this in the morning. Stupid." And then I blacked out.

Fastforward eight hours to me stumbling into the hotel bathroom with a massive headache and a rumbling stomach. It took me one look in the mirror to remember the night before and my drunken breakdown. As I washed the black streams of eyeliner off my cheeks, I waited for the regret to sink in. And waited. And then I realized, I felt OK. I actually felt better than OK. I felt relieved.

I never thought it would feel so good to tell my friends about our troubles with infertility. It was like this huge weight had been lifted off our shoulders. I instantly realized that I had really underestimated the compassion of our friends.

It's the little things like this that keep making our struggles a tiny bit easier, and keep reminding me why I should be grateful for the life that BumpMister and I have right now, regardless of what may come. So this Labor Day, I'm thanking my friends for helping me cope with my hard labor in the hopes of having a real Labor Day of my own in the future.

The Infertile 15

Aah college. A time of upheaval and uncertainty, when life is rapidly changing and every day is unexpected.

Eighteen-year-old undergrads cope with this happy yet unsettling process in a variety of ways, and I, like many, remedied my anxiety with a cornucopia of fatty, greasy, foods of convenience. Your hookup from last night won't return your call? Try a paint-can sized container of Cup O Noodles at 2 a.m. You want to calm an anxious stomach the night before final exams? Sooth those nerves with five Keystone Lights and a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Your mother is visiting after a night of complete debauchery? Eat a hearty breakfast of cold Domino's pizza and stale Doritos.

Somehow I was lucky enough to avoid the Freshman 15. Yet I was not prepared to face this foe again later in life disguised as another, more deadly coping mechanism: The Infertile 15.

Tell me you're with me: When you first start trying to conceive, you're so convinced that you're going to automatically become pregnant that you begin eating like a pregnant woman. Screw the fat-free frozen yogurt and hand me the ice cream! Give me a tall glass of chocolate milk in the morning - gotta feed that growing baby her vitamins! I deserve that Snickers - my body is under a lot of stress and burning extra calories already.

Before you know it, you look like you did the morning after doing two keg stands on spring break.

The Infertile 15 is especially awful because, in all honestly, you want to be fat - just not with a food baby. And you know that when you finally do get pregnant, you're just going to gain more weight on top of your infertile fluff.

It's true, I might be an extreme: After Dr. Obigeewyan told me that my lack of ovulation may stem from my obsessive working out, I went from going to the gym seven days a week - sometimes twice a day - to hauling my ass out of bed maybe once or twice a week to work out before work. I stopped counting calories and started counting cycle days.

Well you know what? I feel gross. And to top it all off, my Infertile 15 didn't make me ovulate this month. So I'm going to try to find a happy medium - hey, I'll accept an Infertile 7.5 if it results in a Fertile 30.

The Hangover

I don't know about you, but for me, the two-week guessing period around ovulation is a time of complete indulgence. Constant sex and sundaes. Sleeping in and skipping the gym. Hopes and smiles and daydreams.

And then comes ... the Hangover. Or, as it's more commonly called, the two-week wait. You wake up with a massive headache and feel like complete garbage all day. You tell yourself you're never, ever going to go all out like that again because it's not worth it. All you want to do is sleep it off and wake up when it's over.

My Hangover has another layer; one that BumpMister is really not fond of -- the complete aversion to anything close to sex. "What? Sex? For what reason?" "You've got to be kidding me - didn't you get enough for the past two weeks?" "Is that your foot touching my leg? Stop. IT!"

I don't know what it is. But after two weeks of every-other-day-sex, I've had enough. I'm tired. I just want to go to bed.

Perhaps it's because the Hangover has not once ended Positively. So by the time it arrives, I'm already mentally gearing up for the next two-week indulgence. And too much of a good thing will just make me fat.